Strength Over Sense
by drewbug
Summary: 'Be ready,' Reid tells him, 'but do not interfere. These men respect only strength.' s1.
1. Chapter 1

**Strength Over Sense**

**Nicole Clevenger (April 2015)**

**Notes:** By now you probably know what's to follow, and that's me teaming up with the streets of Whitechapel to hurt Edmund Reid in any way possible. This is a spot of Vigilance Men violence, set a couple of days after episode 1.02. It was intended to be about half as long as it is, but it exploded into a h/c extravaganza. Warnings for language and vomiting. Fill for the **h/c bingo** prompt _hiding an injury/illness_.

For nessy. I make no money, because they don't belong to me.

* * *

Jackson raises a hand to knock at the open office door, noticing for the first time how much colder it is up here. No cracked windows that he can see, but the candles along the walls flicker as if in a breeze. It feels as if the storm that has been threatening the skies all day is about to start itself up in here.

Reid finishes the line he's writing before he looks up. He makes a vague motion that Jackson interprets as invitation, turns back to his work. Jackson drops into the chair on the other side of the desk, feeling in his bones the entire length of the day.

"It's late," he finally says, when Reid continues to scribble and ignore him. "I'm heading out."

"Mmm." The pen scratches across the paper.

"Thought we could get a drink," he tries again, absently picking at a chip in the desk with a fingernail. "Some food?"

He doesn't truly know why he came up here, not really. Maybe Susan's right. Maybe he's devoting too much attention to this man. Just because he's already seeing a few of the patterns around here, such the one leading him to believe Reid is like to remain here all night without intervention. The one that has him guessing Reid's not bothered to eat all day. The one that has him positive, even after this short of a time, that by this hour Reid is definitely in pain.

It's the job of a con man to recognize behavior patterns. Not his fault that he happens to be better at it than some.

"Enjoy your evening," Reid murmurs, clearly more interested in whatever it is that he's doing. "Attempt to stay out of trouble."

"Said _we_, Reid."

The inspector glances up from the papers now. Blinks. He shakes his head, drops his gaze. "I am busy." The pen returns to its progress over the blank spaces of the page.

Jackson snorts. "Yeah, and when can that not be said to be so? Come on. It'll keep."

"Your surfeit of leisure time is not a luxury we all enjoy, unfortunately. _I_ am busy."

"Repeat it as many times as you want. I still say it'll keep long enough for a plate of food."

Do those fingers clench a bit tighter around that pen? Reid's getting annoyed; Jackson can read this without being able to see his face. He isn't particularly concerned.

"I'll even pay," Jackson says. Reid has been intent on his pretense of disregard, but at this statement the smooth motion of his handwriting falters. The shock, no doubt. "I hear I'm making a sergeant's wages these days."

Reid groans. He throws down the pen with a little more force than necessary; it bounces on the stack of paper. He rubs fiercely at his eyes. "Why do you torment me, man? Go home."

The chunk of wood Jackson's been picking at splinters. He pulls his hand back at the sharp bite under his nail. Brings it up to his mouth to try and suck out the sting. "No one's trying to torment you," he says around the finger. "Trying to do you a favor. Let's get out of this place for a while."

"I've no need of a nursemaid, Jackson. Nor an irritant."

It's pushing past annoyed and into angry, and Jackson keeps his tone deliberately unruffled. "Not looking to be either." The end of his finger throbs, a relatively giant pain for such an insignificant wound. He pulls it out of his mouth to glare at it. This does nothing to help, and he lights up a cigarette instead.

Reid's staring him down, the muscles working in his jaw. Jackson puts on his best innocent expression. Stares right back. He feels determined to see this through now, a conviction not present when he'd originally walked in.

"And… what?" Reid says, with an exasperated breath. "If I do not go, you will remain here as distraction?"

"Maybe." He hadn't thought that far. This was never a fully-formed plan. "Or I'll make my way alone. But who knows what manner of temptation lies out there waiting."

"You behave like a child," the inspector scowls. "Wheedling and threatening."

Jackson grins, not chagrined in the least. He takes a long drag off the cigarette. "You wouldn't know what to do without me, Reid."

"I begin to think I would be willing to risk it."

"Don't say that. Who would make use of that shiny new deadroom?" Jackson has a sudden vision of Drake in an apron, wielding a bone saw. He shudders. Reid's expression bends enough to take on a hint of the quizzical; Jackson waves the unspoken question away, trailing a thin streak of smoke through the air. "All I'm saying is that it's a better idea for you to accompany me than it is to sit here."

Reid checks his pocketwatch. Sighs. "Very well."

Surprise twists wrong his inhalation, and Jackson coughs. "Simple as that?" He watches Reid shuffle his paperwork into a desk drawer.

"I have not the energy to argue with you. Do not continue to fight a battle you have already won."

He has no idea what he's done to achieve this victory, but he'll take it. "Well okay." Jackson gets to his feet. He pretends not to notice when it takes Reid more of an effort than it should to do the same.

He heads downstairs first, leaving the inspector to make the trip without scrutiny. Artherton stands sentry behind the front desk; Jackson crushes his cigarette out under his boot and ambles over to lean on the wooden surface. Artherton eyes him warily.

"You leave for the night?" the man asks.

It sounds a little too hopeful to Jackson's ear. "That I do, and I'm taking Reid with me. Hold down the fort, Sergeant. And try not to miss me too much while I'm gone."

"If you would refrain from giving my men instruction, Captain, I would appreciate it."

Reid, coming up behind him. He's got his lapel bunched in his fist, a sure sign that shoulder's bothering him. Jackson's lips twitch into a frown before he can straighten them out again.

"Just answering a question," he says with a shrug. "Wouldn't want to be rude. Artherton here might think I don't like him anymore."

Artherton's whiskers shift with his inaudible grumble. Jackson winks at him. He's come to truly enjoy poking this bear.

"I shall return shortly," Reid says to Artherton. He has to release the grip on his coat to accept his hat from the desk sergeant; as soon as he puts it on, his hand returns to its bracing position. Jackson wonders if he even realizes that he's doing it. "It seems the Captain needs a nanny if we wish to keep him out of our cells."

"Should I assign a uniform to him, sir? Sounds like to be a round the clock task."

"You volunteering your services?" Jackson asks, his smirk only deepening at the look of near horror this thought brings to Artherton's face. "Come on – admit to Reid that you see me in your dreams."

"Bloody nightmares," Artherton says.

Jackson tips his hat to the man behind the desk, pleased to note that the inspector seems to be breathing a little easier beside him. "Let's go," he says, turning to lead the way to the door. "Before Artherton tries to steal me away."

"I would not put up a fight," Reid says.

He still doesn't entirely understand how he ended up here, keeping this company. A series of tiny steps all leading in this direction. Some nights he wonders how long it can possibly last. It's absurd, this pairing. Him here.

He refuses to let himself think about how much he suspects he's going to miss it when it's over.

"Careful, boys," Jackson calls back, playing his part as he pushes through the double doors. "Man might think you don't want him around."

"I know," Reid commiserates with Artherton behind him, in a voice Jackson suspects is deliberately pitched so that he can hear. "I am beginning to regret the decision to hire him also."

* * *

The Bear had been crowded, and almost claustrophobically loud. Their meal mostly silent, conversation falling off in the face of the noise level and the headache that he was certain Reid had. The cuts above the man's eyebrow still stood out starkly against his skin; made, Jackson guessed, by the same missing ring that the inspector now kept close. He'd spent the meal watching Reid do little more than push food around his plate, his own fingers playing absently with the chain around his neck that these days feels far lighter than it should.

Once outside, Jackson had taken a moment to appreciate the rancid Whitechapel air – cooler, at least, if no fresher – before lighting a cigarette and intentionally moving in the opposite direction of the stationhouse. Reid had followed, though through want of the companionship or simple inertia Jackson wasn't sure. He didn't ask.

They're several streets away now, meandering through the sparser nighttime foot traffic. Most of the people out here at this hour only linger for want of anywhere else to go. They stay mostly to the thick shadows; Jackson's lost enough nights out here to know that it isn't the most sociable crowd. Not that Reid's giving them much of a challenge. The inspector walks along beside him with his hands in his coat pockets. Jackson has no idea where it is that they're headed.

He suspects Reid doesn't either. The man seems unfocused; it's not the first time Jackson has gotten this impression over the last couple of days. The results of Carmichael's beating, maybe – Jackson hadn't been there in time to see things firsthand, but he'd dragged the scene out of Drake once things had settled a little. When he'd realized they were both bleeding. That Reid wouldn't stop rubbing at his neck.

Near strangled with a belt it was said, but Reid had refused him a look; the inspector had left them shortly thereafter. Handing the boy over to Drake's care and purporting to be on his way home.

Jackson had been in his own hurry to get out of there. To get back to Susan, to be sure that she was really as unharmed as she claimed. It'll be a long while before he can rid himself of the image of Carmichael forcing her bent over that table, her face terrified and bloody. He'd had to put her in a hansom, had to leave her so he could go clean up the mess he'd made.

Just as well anyway. Susan had shut him out the moment they made it through the door.

Jackson can still see the bruises, peeking out from under Reid's high collar. A sickly yellow-green that contrasts dramatically with his skin. He's tried not to scrutinize them too often, the longer he looks the more heavily his guilt weighs for the part he played in the whole thing. Not that he'd seen a choice, and he'd done his best to make right in the end. But he's all too aware of the sequence of events.

As, obviously, is Reid. Though the other man knows not the motivation behind it.

He has to stick close now. Reid's given him no goddamn choice. The man's got his name and his ring as proof to go with it; for reasons of his own, Reid seems content to let it lie for the time being, but there's no question Jackson needs to keep an eye on this situation. Like he told Susan, they _don't_ want this man as enemy. He tells himself this is the reason he's coaxed Reid out here. The reason he's been so watchful. The lie comes surprisingly easy, but it doesn't stop the guilt beating its wings in his ears.

There's a group of men – five, no six – standing around something they've got up against a wall. At this hour the clump of people can be nothing but suspicious, even without the pinned prey; Reid takes notice before Jackson has to point it out. As they cross the street and near the small crowd, Jackson can see it's a some_one_ over a some_thing_. And that it looks like it might be a kid.

"What the hell?" He starts pushing his way through the group.

Reid's at his shoulder, his mission the same. "Police. H-Division," he calls. Most of the men fall back a few steps, though the two pinning the boy to the brick don't move. "What is it goes on here?" Reid demands.

"We're doing your job," the man in front of Jackson snarls. "This cur's been stealing from up and down this whole street." He looks familiar, and after a beat Jackson places him as one of Lusk's Vigilance boys. Bigger than it seems a man should be, with at least six inches on him; drunk too, judging by the smell. Fucking fantastic. He's overly conscious now of the four at his back in this improvised arc of a half circle, their body heat pressing against him.

"Release him," Reid says. It's a tone that leaves little room for argument. But these men are angry and have a low respect for the police, and it takes a moment before anyone reacts. The boy's eyes jump around the surrounding faces as the adults debate his fate; he's filthy and disheveled, and he looks far too tiny next to the brutes beside him. Jackson swats at the thick fingers still circling the small wrist nearest him, his other hand hovering over his gun.

Finally the frozen tableau melts. The man breaks his hold without dropping his glare; when the one on the other side follows suit, the boy stumbles and crumples to the ground. Jackson crouches beside him, leaving Reid to deal with the group above his head. The tension is visceral, and he keeps one ear on the proceedings as he checks the kid over.

The first thing he notices, this close, is that their _he_ is a _she_. Maybe ten years old, youth and the dirt and the messily cropped hair all adding to the illusion. The trousers don't hurt either, two sizes too big. They're torn and bloodied around the right ankle, suggesting a newness to the leg injury the kid won't stop squirming long enough to let him examine.

"Hold still. Not gonna hurt you," he murmurs. Either the girl doesn't believe him or she has no plans to obey; the end result is the same. When he tries to grab her ankle, she kicks at him.

"Where is Lusk?" Reid asks. "Who leads you?"

There are too many people breathing above him. They're at the mouth of a narrow alleyway; the echoes bounce away into the darkness. He doesn't like these odds. His own vulnerable position down here.

"Lusk meets with the committee." Jackson glances upward, past all the fidgeting legs. Reid is facing down the speaker, but Jackson is far from comfortable with the way the other men are beginning to crowd in. The girl on the ground sends another kick his way, and he gets to his feet.

"Kid's hurt," he says, drawing attention his direction. "Recent, I'd say." Jackson sends a pointed look around at the men and the heavy sticks that they carry. These men were recruited for strength over sense, their fear shaped into anger. Unfulfilled, when the man named Ripper was never caught. He'd taken care to stay out of their way then, and he sees no cause to change that policy now. Unresolved anger is always looking for somewhere to land.

"We will take the child to Leman Street," Reid says, not shifting his eyes from the man before him. "Charges may be brought in the morning."

It is not a well received idea. Especially by the girl. While they're all busy arguing, she seizes her opportunity. Even hampered by the injury, the kid moves fast.

With this sudden motion, the pocket of fragile civility collapses. Seeing their prize escaping, the group morphs into shoving muscles and swinging fists as the men fight to get past; it's all Jackson can do to stay standing. Big shifting bodies, chaos conspiring to seemingly double the shouting group in size. He can't see Reid. He's trying to get at his pistol, but an arm hooks his and he has to struggle to free himself. He gets a glimpse of Reid, just in time to see the inspector slammed sideways into the brick wall.

Jackson's fingers curl around the hilt of his gun, slips it out of the holster with a practiced ease. He fires into the air, and the unexpected sound turns them all into statues.

It splits violently through the quiet of the night, and Jackson can only hope that maybe someone over at Leman Street will hear and investigate. A gunshot is not a normal sound on these streets, and certainly that noise was loud enough to carry. Perhaps it will be odd enough to attract some attention.

A more immediate benefit reveals itself, as three of the men take off running the other way. He hadn't expected it, but he's not going to argue with a lessening of the numbers. Now a fourth peels away in the same direction. If he'd know that was all the effort it was going to require, Jackson would have had his weapon out as soon as they'd first approached. He doesn't understand how these coppers get anything accomplished without guns on their side. Where he'd come from, guns were the language of the land.

He's feeling a bit pleased with himself, and he doesn't fight too hard with the smirk tugging his lips. But there's still two men to deal with, one of them the drunk giant. "Reid?" He slides his gaze away from the two who are left, checking to see how the inspector is faring.

Reid's lost his hat, but he's on his feet. Staring them down, and though Jackson's only got a view of his profile, it paints a clear picture of his irate expression. Good enough. The captain's focus returns to the two big bodies facing them. The rain they've been waiting for begins to lazily fall, fat drops splattering dark dots on the leather sleeve of his outstretched arm.

"They circle around," Reid says, without looking his way. Crushing any hope that this might be coming to a close. "Find the child. I'll follow."

Jackson's mouth opens, the automatic argument formed and looking to escape. His attention bounces now between Reid and the men. Those solid sticks in their hands. He can't simply leave him here. But he doesn't want those other four to get ahold of that girl first.

"Edward Ludlow," Reid says to one of the men, and Jackson sees a flicker of response around his eyes. "James Oliver. I know your names. What will you do now?"

It seems to stall them a bit, this identification. Jackson backs a few steps down the alley, his eyes still on the standoff.

"Collect your friends and go," the inspector tells them, his voice rumbling through the dark. "And we shall pretend we never met this night."

It sounds a fair offer; the men look to be considering it. Jackson moves off down the alleyway, forced to trust that Reid knows what it is he's doing.

There's no doubt that the kid is more familiar with this dank warren than Jackson, his only chance in finding her if that leg injury has slowed her down. He can't even make out his shoes in this dim alley, the shape of his boots melding with whatever unidentified garbage they tread on. Half the sconces on the walls are out, candles snuffed by drops of rainwater that have found their way through cracks in the overhead brick. He's still got his gun in his hand as he prowls through the maze. He'd be a liar if he said that the weight of it doesn't make him feel a little better.

On the first go, Jackson passes the nook where she's hiding. Something grabs for his attention, though, a subconscious niggle that has him retracing his last few steps. She's wedged herself into a shadowy crevice that's barely large enough to accommodate her frame.

"Come on out, darlin'. I'm one of the good guys."

He hears the words after they leave his lips, and a part of him wants to take them back. Or at least offer up clarification. _Okay, maybe not one of the good guys. But I'm with them._

Something big and invisible scurries past his foot, and he smothers an undignified noise as his toes curl in his boots. Fucking rats. The angles of the alleyway distort sound, bending and bouncing; unseen voices swell for a moment before fading off, but it's difficult to pinpoint their distance. Jackson peers futilely into the darkness. They need to get out of here. Find Reid. "Trust me," he says. "You're better off with us than the mob."

She doesn't move; with Jackson blocking her egress she's got nowhere left to go. He can hardly blame her for not wanting to come out, despite his meager assurances. They are, after all, planning to take her to a jail cell.

_Okay, so maybe there ain't any good guys. _

But there's definitely someone approaching, and they've run out of time. Jackson finds the girl's arm with his empty hand, trying to be gentle but still determined to pull her out of there. "Sorry, kid," he mutters. "Nothing personal." He manages to get her free and mostly standing beside him, spinning to face the oncoming threat with his weapon raised. She struggles, but he can't spare her a glance. Jackson tightens his hold on her arm, trying to keep her somewhat behind him but wary of letting her go.

The girl's ready to bolt again, that much is clear. He's willing to bet he's bruising the hell out of her arm.

As the figure comes closer, it sharpens itself into a shape more familiar. Jackson relaxes a little, lowering his pistol as he releases a breath. "Reid?" There's something off; even in this darkness, Jackson can read a crookedness to the lines of his posture. Reid moves tentatively, too carefully. Like a man trying to convince the world of his sobriety. The inspector staggers, his hand finding the stability of the damp brick.

"Reid?" Jackson calls again, giving the girl's arm a rough tug. He drags her stumbling the short distance to where Reid leans heavily against the wall; she's not his priority at the moment. Reid pushes himself away from the support, only to slump back against it with a groan. He rests his forehead on the brick, and Jackson sees that the left side of his face is a black slick of blood.

"Christ." He reholsters the pistol, requiring at least one unoccupied hand. The girl seems determined to hamper every movement, each motion he makes countered by a violent pull in the opposite direction. He needs to get Reid nearer the light, to evaluate the extent of the damage; it looks as if the old cuts above his eyebrow have reopened. An unnecessary reminder that sits like lead in his gut.

"Talk to me. What the hell happened?" Jackson demands, attempting with his free hand to nudge him toward the closest lit sconce. "C'mon, Reid, gimme a couple of steps this way."

The inspector won't move; the girl moves too much. And with every minute that passes, their risk of being cornered back here increases.

"We must go," Reid mumbles, the only response Jackson has gotten from him thus far. He has not yet lifted his forehead from the wall.

"You're reading my mind," Jackson says. "But first I want to get a look at your head."

"Not now." This time Reid's shove off the wall is more successful; he stands blinking at them, albeit swaying slightly. "You located the boy," he says flatly, stupidly.

"Girl," Jackson corrects automatically, grabbing Reid's arm to be certain he stays upright. He's got ahold of both of them now.

The modification clearly derails Reid's tenuous focus. "What?"

"Christ," Jackson swears again. "Nevermind."

Head injury. More than simply a reopened wound – a gift from the big guy, maybe, or occurring when Reid had been hurled into the wall during the melee. He'd been standing on Reid's other side after, had only a view of the opposing profile. Jackson can't truly say that Reid hadn't already been bleeding then.

Jackson shifts his hold to Reid's right side, unwilling to yank on his left shoulder; he's got his other charge still in tow, and she's become no more cooperative. This would all be a lot easier without her; truly, he's beginning to think about simply letting her go. Jackson wraps his fingers around Reid's elbow, tugs them both toward the candles.

He's never wanted children. At the moment he feels as if he has two of them.

"C'mon," he urges. "This way."

Eventually Jackson wrangles Reid into the light, propping the inspector up as best he can with all the squirming coming from the kid. Fortunately the man seems content to remain there for the moment, and Jackson pulls a handkerchief from his pocket to try and deal with some of the blood.

"Headache?" Reid's right eye is narrowed to a squint in the dim light, his left puffy and disturbingly unresponsive. Jackson shakes his head. "Don't answer that. 'Course you got a headache. Dizzy?"

The shadows and the constant pulling on his other arm make Jackson's efforts at cleaning the wound prodding and clumsy. Reid tries to brush his hand away. "We've no time for this. We must move." He seems more aware now. Though that's an observation based purely relative.

When Reid starts off on a wavering course toward the entrance of the alley, Jackson sees little choice but to head after him. Discussion over_._ The girl digs in her heels, renews her attempts at escape; he's done fighting with her. Jackson slings her small body over his shoulder. He ignores the noise of useless protest she makes.

He catches up with the other man, not difficult with Reid's uneven pace. Jackson deliberately walks on the inspector's left. "You seeing anything out of that side?" he asks. Working to confirming a theory.

"Very little," Reid admits through his teeth, but he does not stop walking. There's a sense of hollow determination in the progression of one foot in front of the other. "It's disconcerting."

_Disconcerting_. Jackson rolls his eyes. "Yeah," he says. "I don't doubt it."

Swelling, he thinks, from repeated trauma to the same site. Temporary complications caused by pressure. Jackson refuses to dwell on the possibility of anything more serious than that. _Get out of this alley, get rid of the kid. Get to better light_. It's a mantra, and he clings to it.

But as they near the last corner before they're out in the open air, Jackson can hear the sounds of people. More than one, for certain. He stops; a lagging step later, Reid does the same. Because the captain stands to his left, the inspector is forced to turn his entire body to look at him. The motion unbalances him, and Jackson grabs his arm when he staggers.

"Sounds like they've regrouped. We go the other way?"

Reid looks disoriented, barely on his feet. But he shakes his head, a tiny movement more felt than seen. "No. _I_ am the law here. We go this way."

The girl over Jackson's shoulder launches another round of revolt, kicking wildly at any part of him she can reach with her short legs. She lands a solid shot or two to his stomach; her flailing shoes graze his hipbone. Not merely uncomfortable – she's getting a little too close to more important bits for his liking. Jackson resists an urge to smack her as he shifts his hold to try and pin down her legs.

"Knock it off," he grumbles pointlessly, feeling a need to pretend something in this night is under his control.

Reid reclaims his arm, pulling away and visibly squaring his shoulders. His fingers move toward the blood on his face, but stop short of actually touching the injury; his hand drops to his side, curling into a tight fist. Jackson eyes him warily, not wanting to ask the question forefront in his mind. But needing to know the answer.

"You steady enough to do this?"

Reid flinches; his chin comes up. "Yes," he says, as Jackson had expected he would. A waste of the breath required by the question.

"Okay," he says, still unconvinced. But he'll back whatever play Reid wants to make here.

The inspector appears uncertain of this, recent history suggesting perhaps otherwise. That, or Jackson's skepticism reads clearly on his face, despite the dual hindrance of dim light and Reid's one working eye. "Be ready," Reid tells him, "but do not interfere. These men respect only strength."

Gun returned to his hand and the kid wiggling like a sack of cats over his shoulder, Jackson matches Reid's speed. It's too easy to slip into memories of those months of Ripper, when fear coated everything and even the air seemed to follow you around with a damp hand heavy on the back of your neck. Everyone had been anxious to find somewhere to lay blame – those on the streets especially desperate to end Mad Jack's reign – and the power that had been implicitly given over to the Vigilance Men then remained something they were loathe to give up. He figures the odds are split about even that this group will recognize Reid's authority, that they'll back down easy. Probably depends on how angry they still are.

The group, reassembled, waits for them at the end of the alley. Just in out of the drizzle, blocking their exit. Reid doesn't hesitate, intent on cutting a path directly through them.

"Stand aside and let us pass," Reid says to them. "Inform Lusk that he and one – _one_ – witness may appear at Leman Street tomorrow to present charges."

His voice is firm, but Jackson is less confidant in his stance. Reid's feet are positioned a hair too far apart for it to be considered wholly natural, searching for balance Jackson guesses he's sorely lacking. Though the captain suspects he's the only one who notes it. Reid's left hand is still cramped into a fist, fingers clenched as inflexibly as the muscles of his jaw.

All in all – what with the blood and the angry resolve and the mangled half-glower – Reid looks an imposing figure. Any harm come up until now might be written off as overzealous accident, incidental contact while in pursuit of purpose. But if these men choose to make a pridefully misguided stand here, with their prey plainly in custody, there is going to be hell to pay.

Jackson sees this understanding rippling its way through the men, can pick it out on their faces as to each one the thought occurs. They fold away slowly, opening a route to the rainy main street. But the big drunk guy remains an obstacle. Ludlow. He stands toe to toe with Reid, looming over the inspector. Reid has to tilt his head back to meet the man's eyes.

"The child will be held to account for any crimes that have been committed. Your task is done," Reid tells him. The man only blinks, and Jackson fights the impulse to grab Reid's arm and simply drag him out of here. "You will move," the inspector demands. The tone brooks no debate.

A bit of obvious posturing, long enough that Jackson begins to wonder if this idiot will decide his reputation won't hold with backing down. The captain's paying more attention to this than to his captive, and it earns him a hard kick to the gut when his restraining grip on her legs slackens. He hadn't realized he was virtually holding his breath until the air is set loose in a gush by the impact of her shoe.

"Yeah," Ludlow finally relents. "Yeah, we'll be there." He refuses to move, though. Reid steps around him, directing Jackson to precede him through the small crowd and into the street; the captain does, and Ludlow gathers up his own group with a wave of his hand. It's difficult not to turn around, for Jackson not to at least glance over his shoulder and to continue walking as instructed. A show of disregard, this big _fuck you_ with their backs.

He's itching to look behind him. His fingers twitch and contract in their hold on his gun.

But it sounds as if they're all now headed the other way, and every clear step toward the station eases a bit more of the tautness in Jackson's shoulders. Well, one of them at any rate – impossible to really relax his left side while anticipating the next attack from Miss Squirms-a-Lot. He wonders if this is anything like what Reid feels, this insidious rigidity that starts so small but creeps to spread over everything; before he had been aware it was even happening, the tension had gotten its fingers wedged into everywhere. Stretching and squeezing, and generally making everything ache. If he's lucky, Rose will be available when this is all over, to give him a massage just the way he'd taught her. Though he thinks he might need someone more like Bella for this. A girl with stronger hands.

Jackson's debating the pros and cons of therapeutic benefits over perks more sexual in nature, when he hears a soft grunt behind him. A noise that would not have been audible over much else. The kid squeaks a protest as he spins around to investigate. He sees Reid stumble round the corner of the side street they just passed; Jackson winces at the sounds of retching that float his way over the drumming of the rain.

The girl starts beating at his kidneys and spine with her tiny fists. "Fine – you looking to walk on that leg?" Jackson growls, swinging her back to the ground. The storm is no longer content to remain as backdrop, the water falling from the sky in earnest, and the smell coming off her wet clothes so near to his face is decidedly unpleasant. "Be my guest," he says.

He holds her up and in place with a hand around her elbow. His fingers encircle her entire arm.

They're not being followed, the Vigilance Men off to find other conquest. Jackson stows his pistol, watching impatiently for Reid to reemerge. He can't hear anything over the rain now, and he's about to go searching for the other man. Jackson curses again this kid with which he's been saddled.

Reid appears; he slumps against the building and tips back his head to let the rainwater wash over his face, into his mouth. He spits, wipes at his lips with the handkerchief he's holding. Jackson pulls the girl over the handful of puddled paces to get back to the inspector's side.

It seems they'd made their exit from the scene just in time. Looking Reid over, Jackson begins to question if he can manage even the distance they've got left to the station. The authority and bravado are gone; he simply appears a man sick and exhausted. Jackson wonders how much energy it had cost him to put up that front back there. "Any better?" he asks, not truly expecting an honest answer.

"No," Reid surprises him.

It jars Jackson a bit. "So I'll add nausea to the list," he says lightly, attempting to cover his disquiet. Reid just stares at him; even involving only one eye his expression reads blatantly unamused. They're all getting soaked, and again Jackson feels he has no choice but to ask. "You want me to go ahead, get some help? Cuz I tell you, Reid – I am anxious as hell to rid myself of this kid."

"My legs are still functional." Despite the assertion, Reid doesn't look to be in a hurry to go anywhere, other than to shift himself around so the wall now stands tall at his back. Jackson peers at him, trying to judge if the loitering is because he's merely lethargic, or essentially incapable of walking.

Reid's unfocused gaze wanders off to Jackson's left; the inspector clears his throat. "Your name, child." It comes more of a request than Jackson would have demanded it, after all of the trouble she's brought them tonight.

Still the girl refuses to offer them anything that might hint at her assistance. Not even when Jackson can't keep himself from giving her arm an irritated rattle. She bares her teeth at him, the feral grin far from a friendly one; Jackson's unimpressed, and he puckers his lips into a snarky kiss.

"Are you two quite finished?" Reid grinds out. It seems he's more alert than Jackson's given him credit for.

The captain's hat blocks most of the rain from his face, but Reid's hair is plastered dark across his forehead. The water has at least rinsed some of the blood from his skin, though visibility makes the swollen area around his eye look no less grisly.

"You both want so badly to walk?" Jackson says. "Let's walk."

One hand on the girl and the other on Reid, Jackson does his best to steer them all down the vacant wet street. It soon becomes apparent this is not going to work. Between her lingering dreams of escape and the fact that she can hardly put any weight on her leg, the girl tugs jerkily and relentlessly in one direction. Reid, with his cockeyed sense of balance and veering course, continues to pull Jackson in the other. He feels stretched thin between them, a medieval method of torture. The assault from the sky does nothing to mitigate the sensation.

"Hang on," Jackson says, letting go of Reid's arm. He stops long enough to scoop the girl back up and get her readjusted over his shoulder; he's concerned that if he doesn't, they'll be out here all night. Reid ignores him, advancing generally if unsteadily forward. Jackson suspects it's at least in part motivated by the fear that he'll be unable to start up again if he stops.

As soon as their soles hit the cobblestones of Leman Street, Reid puts a deliberate distance between them. _Act II_, Jackson thinks, not missing the familiar set to Reid's shoulders. He almost groans aloud, but still he follows the man toward the front door.

He does groan a moment later. When the kid nails him in the back of the head with her elbow.

"Ow, fuck!" Jackson shouts, nearly dropping the girl. Reid's a few steps ahead, a stiff figure already holding open the door, and he hadn't been joking when he'd claimed to be more than ready to quit the brat. Jackson quickly carries her into the dry stationhouse, victory beckoning from the glowing gas fixtures.


	2. Chapter 2

See part one for notes and disclaimers.

* * *

Artherton's sweeping glance takes in all three of them; he tracks their squelching approach toward the desk. Jackson dumps his captive at the feet of the nearest uniformed officer. It's done gently enough. Though admittedly it could have been more so.

He straightens, and Artherton's attention swings from Reid's face to affix Jackson with something uncomfortably close to a glower. "Don't look at me like that, Sergeant," he warns. "None of this blame can be laid at my door." Artherton looks back to Reid, checking to see if the inspector will confirm this.

But Reid has a different focus. "Find the child a cell where she will not be bothered. Food. A blanket." The officer now holding the girl moves to do as he is bid; Reid shifts to be able to see Jackson. "Examine her there. I would know the extent of her injuries. Attempt to ascertain their cause."

"Sure," the captain agrees. "But first things first."

He would not have thought Reid capable of holding himself any more stiffly, but at Jackson's words he accomplishes it. There's no possibility that the man does not understand exactly to what it is that he refers. Reid's cycloptic expression narrows itself into an approximation of a glare, but it's lopsided and Jackson knows mostly bluster. The captain refuses to flinch.

Reid's rescued, however inadvertently, by an interruption from his desk sergeant. "The charges, Inspector?" Artherton asks.

"Theft, I suspect," the inspector answers, though he does not shift his stare from Jackson's. "Lusk will arrive in the morning to stand accuser. Earlier than we would like, no doubt."

Something flickers in his look, and there's a blink that lasts a beat longer than it should. Reid swallows, abruptly breaks the eye contact. He brushes against Jackson's sleeve as he moves past him, heading for the stairs to his office and evidently hoping to evade further scrutiny from anyone.

But just as Jackson has no intention of letting Reid hole himself away, Artherton does not want to let him go so easily either. "You wish to keep her overnight unregistered, sir?" he calls to Reid's back. Phrased as question, but undeniably protest.

"On my responsibility, Sergeant," Reid rasps, without turning around.

He pauses for a moment at the bottom of the stairs, his hand on the railing, and it's here that Jackson decides to wage battle. He's at Reid's side before the other man can take the first step. "No way. Not a chance." He keeps his voice low, a whisper hissed and irritated. He's tired too, and water runs from his sleeves to drip from his fingers. "We go to the deadroom."

"You have your instruction, Captain. I suggest you see to it."

Jackson can feel Reid trembling just standing this close to him, without even needing to touch the man. He's impressed with the display of sheer will power that Reid's putting on, but in the end there's no way a stiff upper lip is going to trump the physical state of him. "You're with me, Reid. Or I'll make such a scene we'll have the whole stationhouse in here as witness."

A threat, and probably one he'll see retribution for. It may pay off in broad strokes, but even should Reid come quietly Jackson has no illusions about the outlook now for his mood. Best case scenario, the captain's looking forward to sulky and silent. Worst case, Jackson's going to end up fired and freezing his ass in a cell.

But the statement has been made. Sometimes you've got no option but to go all in, and he knows that when you do you have to stand firm behind it. Jackson keeps himself more to Reid's right, wanting to be certain the other man can see that he's deadly serious in this; he waits Reid out, resting a hand on the bannister between them. It's an intentionally casual stance, crafted with purpose. If the inspector decides to take a sudden header into the floor, Jackson wants the best shot at stopping him.

He wonders what this discussion must look like to everyone else.

Reid's pale as paper, and it highlights the old bruises on his neck. The blossoming new ones on his face. Out of the rain, the split by his eyebrow has begun to bleed again. A thin trickle of soupy red, diluted by the water still dripping from his hair.

"Very well," Reid says, his voice measurably rougher than before. This time Jackson catches a wince accompanying his almost convulsive swallow, and he kicks himself for not truly questioning before now just how deep all that bruising around Reid's throat really goes. "My office," Reid specifies wearily.

"Uh-uh," Jackson counters. "Mine."

"You have no office, man. Merely workspace."

"Tomato, tomahto," Jackson says with a shrug. "It's the accent. Twists lotsa words to sound different."

Reid exhales in a little huff of air, and Jackson honestly can't determine if the noise rings amused or frustrated. Probably the latter. The distinction matters less a few seconds later, when Reid mumbles something that sounds absurdly like _sassafras_, and sags forward into the bannister.

"_Shit_. Reid…" So much for his plan. As he swings around to the other side of the railing, he can see they've already got at least two well-meaning uniforms headed their direction. Artherton out from behind the desk and with them. He'd threatened a scene – and would have followed through if need be – but it had never been what he'd wanted.

Reid's not completely out cold, and Jackson counts himself grateful for that. But his grasp of things still looks a touch slippery. Being careful to place himself as best he can between Reid and any onlookers, Jackson turns to face the approaching men.

"I've got it. No cause for alarm." He throws up both his hands and a hapless smile, in a deliberately clownish combination. "Told him I was looking into joining the force. Needs a minute to recover."

The two younger officers appear confused, but they do not verbally question; Jackson makes shooing motions at them, and after a shared glance they scurry away. The rumor mill will have to be dealt with later. Artherton is less easy to dissuade, trying to get a glimpse around him to the inspector, but Jackson grabs his attention with a hand on his shoulder. He waits until the sergeant focuses on him, and says seriously, "Artherton. I'll handle it."

Artherton looks skeptical, but slowly he nods. "If I can be of assistance…" he offers generally, heading back toward the desk. Still throwing concerned glances their way.

"You'll be the first one I shout for," Jackson mutters, already turning to Reid.

He's in a position that can only be loosely termed sitting, a slump of limbs against the railing on one of the lower stairs. He presses the heels of his hands into his forehead as if he seeks to create another bruise. Jackson crouches in front of the man, pleased that Reid looks up when he says his name.

The captain's less thrilled with the obvious disorientation. "Jackson? What…?" Reid's words feel sticky, dragging and sleepy. He moans softly through his teeth, a hand returning to his forehead, and the fact that he doesn't immediately jump up and insist that all is well speaks volumes.

Jackson pushes his hat back on his head for a better view, and a stream of water slips cold down the length of his neck. He scowls and shifts his shoulders, his only concession to the annoyance. "I know you're hurting, Reid," he says quietly, trying to keep his voice from drifting anywhere beyond these stairs. Artherton's still watching them, at least; Jackson is certain of this without needing to turn around. "But I also know you're loathe to collect an audience. And you can bet that's exactly what's gonna happen if we don't get you up and out of here."

"Where?" Jackson had expected more of a reaction; Reid's lips barely move. He does not lift his head from his hand.

"Your precious stationhouse, Reid." He's worried that this is information that needs to be supplied. "About ten feet distant from Artherton, who I'd wager is about ten minutes from sending for aid from the hospital."

Jackson thinks some of this might be getting through; Reid drops his hand now, but still doesn't look up. The inspector licks his lips, swallows. "The Vigilance Men. We located the child?"

He might as well have punched Jackson in the jaw, the icy wave of shock that washes over the captain. Jackson releases a slow breath, runs a hand over his face. He can't resist a glance back at Artherton, who is indeed watching them as expected.

"Yeah," he tells the inspector. "We found the kid. You able to stand?"

Reid nods, straightens up enough to reach for the bannister. His left shoulder doesn't want to cooperate, and the motion fails to see itself through. Reid hisses as his arm falls useless; he lists that direction, and Jackson winces when the wound at his brow connects with the splintered railing post.

Reid doesn't appear to have noticed. He leaves his head where it's landed, bleeding sluggishly onto the dark wood. "If you can't," Jackson continues, "I'm gonna get some help and carry you outta here. And I'm certain you don't want that."

It's taking every ounce of control Jackson has to give Reid this minute, to not simply haul him up and out of here, away to Jackson's own territory of clean steel and better light. He tries to use it instead to suss out any clues he may have missed. He thinks he's going to have to put a stitch or two in that gash in Reid's head.

"Last chance," Jackson says. "Dealer's choice."

A stretch, perhaps, to say that Reid looks more aware. But he's blinking again, and Jackson's on the receiving end of another vague nod. He pushes himself out of his cramped squat, pulls Reid up with a hand on his bicep. Jackson refuses to release him even once he's on his feet, but Reid makes no effort to separate himself. The captain keeps the other man close, both to the strengthen the support and to make it less obvious.

"So far, so good," Jackson murmurs near Reid's ear, scoping out the space and the bodies in it. "Not lookin' to lie, though – this next bit's gonna be a damn sight less fun."

Jackson tosses Artherton a look that's supposed to be reassuring, leading Read on the most direct path possible toward their goal. He isn't entirely sure the inspector understands where they are yet, but he seems clear on what they're trying to accomplish right now, at least. "That's the way. One foot in front of the other," Jackson encourages anyway.

No uniforms he can see, as they progress down the corridor, but he can feel eyes all the same. It's not particularly crowded with either employed or incarcerated around here at the moment, but there are still enough people about; it doesn't have to be a slow night for something like this to be the most interesting thing going. Reid's an automaton beside him, his gaze sweeping no higher than the floor. Moving relentlessly forward under Jackson's guidance, his feet mostly tracking.

Mostly. A couple of stumbling missteps have Jackson relieved when he catches first sight of the deadroom door. "Nearly there," he says.

There's a chill to the empty tiled room after having been shut up most of the evening; he holds Reid in place with one hand while using the other to tip a stack of books off the seat of a chair. Jackson drops the legs back flat on the floor and the wooden feet clatter as they settle. The rain beats against the windows. He wrestles Reid into the chair and fires up the overhead lights.

Jackson ditches his hat, shrugs out of the soaked leather jacket. Gathers up the items he might need. When he rejoins the inspector, Reid's slumped far enough to the left that he looks in danger of sliding out of the chair. Jackson readjusts him closer to upright. Sets his supplies on the vacant table beside them.

They hadn't had Carmichael's body for long, everyone involved anxious to put the ugly affair behind them. The unoccupied slab gives Jackson a decent place to perch while he mops superficially at Reid's hair and skin with a towel. The inspector's quiescence is disturbing.

"Hell of a performance back there." Jackson cleans the new blood off Reid's face, along with a few tiny wood shavings from the stairs. "You recollect any of it?"

"Vigilance Men." Both of his eyes are closed now, his lips a thin line. "The girl."

It's embarrassing how much joy it brings Jackson to hear this. He clears his throat, irons out his grin. "Give the man a cigar," he says roughly, trying to pull it together. They've got bigger issues here than just memory loss, and he needs to find a little distance.

"What about the rest?" he asks, reaching for the needle and thread. "Can you put a name to the place where you sit?"

Reid cracks his eye open at this; it's the only part of his head in motion as his look darts about the room. "Deadroom," he mumbles. He spies Jackson holding the needle over a flame, and he deliberately closes the eye again. "Although…"

"Go on," Jackson says when he doesn't.

"The details. They are somewhat unclear."

"Yeah, well – if they sharpen, you may curse their return. Gotta break it to you, Reid: your encore show was not as much of a success."

Jackson rests a hand in Reid's damp hair, to steady his head and to let him know what's coming. The needle goes easily through the skin after the initial resistance, and Jackson's close enough to hear Reid's teeth squeak as they grind together. "Elaborate," Reid chokes out, as the first stitch goes in.

"Doesn't matter."

"Captain…"

Jackson suspects this tone is meant as persuasive warning, but it vibrates somewhere nearer to a plea. He tries to concentrate on what he's doing, eyes bleary with his own fatigue and feeling in dire need of a cigarette. Two stitches in; he opts to go with one more.

He waits to speak until he's pulled the needle through. "You folded at the foot of the stairs," Jackson tells him, "midway through a fairly tedious argument about semantics."

As he'd anticipated, Reid's reaction to this involves a startled shift of the man's eyebrows; he gasps now as it tugs violently at the stitches, and had Jackson's hand not been placed where it is, he'd have yanked out the fresh needlework when tries instinctively to jerk his head away from the pain.

Jackson holds Reid motionless until he stills under his hand; he gently tilts his head back again so he can finish his task. "Witnesses," Reid grunts. "How many?"

The captain shrugs, the gesture as nonchalant as he can make it even if Reid's not really looking. He sets down the needle and grabs a pair of small scissors. Clips off the end of the thread. "Artherton. Couple of your boys." He decides to leave out the dozen or so in the cells.

Reid groans; free from Jackson's ministrations for the moment, his head returns to the cradle of his hands. Jackson watches him as he fishes out a cigarette from the pack in his pocket. He lights it, and the first rush of smoke down his throat is by far the best thing he's experienced all day.

"And as you can plainly see, Reid, the stars did not fall from their heavens. Nor the earth stop its spin. It'll be alright." The smoke twines itself into matching streams as Jackson exhales through his nose. "They'll get past it, and so will you."

The inspector does not dispute this, but neither does he agree. Knowing the man as he has come to, Jackson suspects his attitude leans toward the first. As with the old injury he thinks to hide from the world, this man is exceptionally stubborn in regard to keeping up a pretense of all is well. It's only been a matter of months, and Jackson's already frustrated with Reid's insistence on invincibility.

He stubs out the cigarette. When he turns back to Reid, the toe of his boot splashes in a tiny pool of water; it drips from Reid's coat, the cuffs of his trousers. It instantly reminds Jackson of how wet he still is himself, and as he shivers he can feel the heavy fabric of his clothes clinging to his skin.

"Okay, Reid. Time to strip."

The phrasing is intentional, designed to get Reid's attention. An undeniable success; the inspector looks up from his hands, the eye not swollen shut absorbed completely in the question. "I _beg_ your pardon?"

"Coat," Jackson says, with a flicker of a grin. "Off."

"Ah." Silence. Reid seems to be considering this, like it's a problem of philosophical standards. Jackson's grin vanishes as the words _brain damage_ flash bright in the back of his mind. "No," Reid says slowly. "I –"

As much to shut up his own thoughts as Reid's, Jackson gets things moving. He hunches in front of the inspector in his chair, begins to carefully tug the waterlogged wool from his frame. Reid neither helps nor hinders, but somewhere in the process he ends up with his head buried dead-weight in Jackson's shoulder. The unfamiliar _surrender_ of it all sets the captain's teeth crashing hard together in his jaw.

Bit his tongue too, and Jackson tries to focus on this irritation so as to beat back some of the swirling, useless fear. He gets Reid's sodden coat completely off; it slaps a soaked lump where he tosses it onto the steel table. Hanging half over the side, because acting as the inspector's support hinders his throw in both angle and leverage. Jackson remains in this awkward position a few moments longer, absently watching the new puddle taking shape under where the dripping has been relocated. He works to plot out the best course of action.

"Reid…" Jackson murmurs, when he manages to rouse himself. The clumped strands of damp hair shift over one another on top of the inspector's head as he stirs. Jackson guides Reid to sit back in the chair; the man's expression reads dazed and bewildered.

"Forgive me. I –"

"World still hasn't ended, Reid," Jackson says, fingers moving to unknot the inspector's tie. The fact that Reid allows him to do it fails to make Jackson feel any better about anything. He loosens the buttons securing the high collar, peels it away a little to peek at the bruising. Lets it fall back into place, deciding that the most sensible strategy here is one fight at a time.

Reid now stares in the general direction of Jackson's sternum, the upsetting blankness taken full hold. Jackson tips up Reid's chin, strikes a match. He holds it close to the inspector's good eye to gauge the response of his pupil; the unexpected vehemence with which Reid pulls away sends the chair teetering beneath him, and Jackson hooks one of the legs with his foot to keep the thing stable. He blows out the match, flicking the stick to the floor.

"Truth," he demands. "How do you feel?"

Reid's not looking at him, though Jackson is unsure if the classification should fall under _can't_ or _won't_. His gaze lingers on the tiles under their shoes. "A headache," he says. As if that's all there is.

Jackson waits for more, but there's nothing. "Yeah, I'm aware of the headache. You got something to expand on that?"

The trembling has only grown worse; Jackson realizes he should be grateful that this escalation had held off long enough for him to get the stitches in. Divested of his overcoat, a cycle of full blown shudders race through the man. "Cold," Reid admits needlessly.

Jackson can feel the early sparks of a headache of his own forming. He lights up another cigarette. "Fine. You seek to play games here? Then I'll commence guessing."

"Such a comfort," Reid says hoarsely. "To hear those words spoken by a surgeon."

The inspector's attempt at humor might bring him more solace were Jackson not so tired, so frustrated. So drenched. "Then take pity and offer a man some assistance, Reid. Vertigo? Blurred vision? Still nauseous?"

"Yes."

Jackson almost asks to which the answer is directed, before understanding that Reid means it to stand for all of them. And that, really, he'd already known this. He supposes he figured there was some hope that here, with a little time and a lot less rain, the situation may have miraculously improved.

"Okay," he stalls, appreciating the honesty but uncertain as to how much he's able to do. He's stopped the bleeding – _at least any external_, his brain pipes up unhelpfully – and until the swelling recedes it's something of a wait-and-see. "Okay. Don't you move."

Jackson leaves him to duck out into the hall, and at the opening of the door a knot of people loitering at the end of the corridor scrambles into an awkward scatter. They trip over each other in their hurry to appear to be on their way elsewhere; the one left abandoned in the chaos has the misfortune of looking up and catching Jackson's eye.

"Kid," he calls, motioning the uniform over. He doesn't have a name for this one, should spend more time committing these rarely interacted with blues to memory. He'd done his diligence when he'd first started spending time here, had made a point of speaking to all of them at least once. But too easily his focus had narrowed in on Reid and Reid alone, and at some point he'd allowed a few of the finer details to slide. "C'mere."

The young officer obeys, though he looks as if he expects reprimand over instruction. "Run over to The Bear," Jackson says, when he's near enough to converse in normal tones. "Get ice."

"Sir?" Whatever he had dreaded, it was not this. There's a fleeting moment where Jackson ponders what kind of reputation he might have around here.

"Ice," he repeats, directing a punctuating exhale of cigarette smoke into the kid's face. "Go. You." He doesn't wait for answer before returning to the deadroom and closing the door.

Jackson thinks Reid exactly as he had been, but he sees now that both eyes are closed, his chin hanging toward his chest. As he rounds the chair to stand in front of the man, the compressed line of his lips and the hands fisted in his lap tell Jackson that he's not sleeping. But not unconscious either, and for that the captain's thankful.

Reid looks less likely to share this sentiment. Discomfort and exhaustion etched into every line of him.

"Hey," Jackson says softly, nudging Reid's good shoulder with two fingers. "You got a blanket up in your office? A hidden cache of spare clothing?"

Reid's eye blinks open languidly; he moves reflexively to push himself up. Jackson expends almost no effort to hold him to the chair.

"Don't need to stand to answer a simple question, Reid." Jackson drops his cigarette, crushes it out under his heel. It sizzles when it hits the splattered water on the floor. "Not a need to go anywhere. Just looking to get you more comfortable."

"Perhaps," Reid answers sluggishly. "Unlikely."

Jackson wonders about the role of the man's wife in all this, if she's missing him and expecting him home. If the right thing to do isn't just to turn the inspector over to her care. He doesn't ask Reid's opinion. Jackson learned early that Emily Reid is yet another subject implicitly but perpetually off limits.

"I'll turn something up," he says, mostly to himself. If need be, he'll steal the one they gave the girl in the cell. And what Reid doesn't know won't hurt him.

"I suspect…" Reid begins, and it sounds as if he struggles to prevent the words from slurring together, "I suspect, Captain, you've done all you can. No… no need to concern yourself further."

"Sure, Reid. Goodnight and I'll see you tomorrow."

Jackson doesn't move from his position, underlining the sarcasm with his stance. Reid sighs wearily, and the breath strangles into a weak cough. His arms wrap his torso in a twisted hug now, as he tries futilely to rub some warmth into his upper body.

"And your plan?" Jackson asks, when Reid does not respond. "Remain in here? Because though I haven't yet found opportunity to test it, I can assure you that this autopsy slab is fit bed for no man still breathing." He raps on the table with his knuckles. "No give."

"I shall return to my office. I have work."

Jackson wonders if he can hear how ridiculous this sounds, in light of current circumstance. "And I have a waiting bed warmed by at least one beautiful and willing woman. But you've heard no complaint from me."

"You are a source of endless complaint." Reid coughs again, curls somehow further in on himself. "Regardless of subject." Jackson can hear the inspector's teeth chattering. He realizes the rain must have stopped.

"It's already plain you adore me, Reid. No cause to go to such lengths to try and mask it." Jackson's tentatively encouraged by the conversation, the coherent if slowly strung sentences. Enough that he deems it safe to leave the man a few moments while he's off on his search for a blanket. "I'll be right back," Jackson tells him. "Stay here. Make a start at getting out of those wet things."

Reid neglects to even acknowledge this instruction. Jackson had anticipated at least a token protest; he exits the room, feeling a bit unbalanced when it doesn't come.

The corridor is ostensibly empty this go around, and Jackson wanders all the way back out to Artherton's desk without seeing an officer. He has no idea what's taking that uniform so long to get ice, thinks he should have just gone himself. Jackson wastes too many minutes deflecting the sergeant's questions before he can make his request for the blanket. By the time he finally has it in his hands, he's anxious to get back to his deadroom.

He swings open the door, and Reid is not in the chair; the surprise of this stretches the seconds until he locates him. Hunched over the long double sink across the room, the curve of his back a whimper miserable and shaking. The folded blanket lands on the abandoned seat where Jackson drops it. He crosses to the inspector, and over here the air is tinged slightly sour.

Reid's elbows are locked in his grip on the porcelain edge, and they look desperate in their wavering efforts to hold him up. The dark hair that had been drying is damp again with sweat. There can't possibly be anything left in his stomach to expel, but his body tries pointlessly all the same. Jackson returns to where they were, retrieves the blanket and chair. Sets them beside where Reid's standing, one slung over the other.

When Reid's arms decide they're tired of supporting him, his legs immediately follow suit. This time Jackson reacts quickly enough to divert his collapse into the wooden chair rather onto the waiting tile floor.

"So tell me, Inspector – you feeling like a man in a state capable of contemplating work?"

"My worry," Reid mumbles, resting the uninjured side of his face against the smooth new sink, "not yours."

He lifts a quivering investigative hand toward the stitches; Jackson gently bats it away. "Nothing lacking in my skills with a needle – keep your fingers out of it." Jackson studies the work himself, leaning over the slouched inspector and trying to see around his own shadow. "Suspect you won't even see much of a scar, despite all your fidgeting."

"Mmph," is what it sounds like Reid says.

"C'mon. I want to get that jacket off, at least." He makes a swipe for Reid's sleeve, catches the cuff with a finger.

"You seem… seem determined, Captain. To separate me… from my clothing." Reid's lips brush against the porcelain as they force out the words.

"Tell yourself whatever you want, Reid. Up."

This time Reid attempts to offer his assistance, and it only serves to make the entire procedure more complicated. A tangle of fabric and limbs, and by the time the jacket is off the inspector again looks decidedly nauseous. Jackson reaches for the buttons of his shirt, thinking it best to get this all done in one go. Reid's fingers grope blindly through the air for a moment before closing around his.

"Enough," he croaks. "Leave me be."

It has none of the power of demands made earlier in the night, and Jackson would have ignored it were it not for the knock on the door. "_What_?" he growls, spinning that way.

The door is cracked open; the uniformed kid peeks around it. Jackson crosses to him, pushing him out of the room through deliberate invasion into his personal space. Backing him out into the hallway, he doesn't miss Reid's lurch out of the chair to hang again over the edge of the sink.

The inspector knocks over the chair in his haste to get up, and the kid's eyes widen at the sudden clamor. He can't see into the deadroom now, but he doesn't appear at all consoled by the choked retching that floats out from inside. Jackson plucks the cloth-wrapped bundle from his hands. "Thanks," he remembers to say. "Now scat."

He closes the door on the kid, distantly surprised when it slams hard enough to rattle the panes.

Reid clings to the edge of the sink, his posture swaying and dubious. Jackson hurries to right the chair. He presses Reid down into it, shakes out the blanket and drapes it over the man's shoulders. He's still wearing his wet shirt, but Jackson's thinking that particular fight may have to be conceded.

When he brings the ice up to Reid's eye, the inspector's entire body flinches. A second later, some of the rigid lines shaping his frame begin to melt. A moan borne of pure relief escapes him.

"Yeah, I had a notion that might help. Can you hold this?"

He doesn't open his eye, but Reid's arm comes up in an effort to comply. Jackson directs his hand around the lumpy bundle. His back complains when he straightens.

"Just a bit more," Jackson promises, "and I'll see you home. Gotta go look in on the girl."

He doesn't want to; the way she was getting around out there, he figures she's probably fine to sit until morning. But she's just a kid – brat or no – and she's probably hurting. And scared. He can take a couple of minutes to try and alleviate one of those, at least.

Reid's free hand slips under the blanket and his open collar to rub at his throat, and Jackson feels a new twinge of sympathy. That bruising can't make any of this more pleasant, not by a long shot. "Listen, Reid," he hears himself say, "in regards to the other night. I need you to know – whatever might've been said, or done… There was no malice in it."

The inspector's hand freezes around his throat. Falls to lay on his thigh. "We've had this discussion already, Jackson" comes an exhausted murmur. "See to the child."

The captain has no wish to delve into it either, had not intended to bring it up. He takes the opportunity Reid offers him, feeling in too much of a hurry to leave the room.

The kid's fine, as it turns out, though no less difficult to handle. She doesn't seem to relate the man who'd hauled her through the streets over his shoulder with any kind of solace or salvation; it takes fifteen minutes before Jackson gives up on trying to coax her from the corner and just picks her up and drops her onto the thin bed. He's a lot bigger than she is, and motivated by a need to get this done quickly. In the extra five minutes of wrestling it takes to get her leg unbent and uncovered, the only thing he can think about is the possibility of finding Reid sprawled unconscious on his deadroom floor.

Some heavy bruising, a few superficial cuts that have already stopped bleeding. It looks like it hurts, but he can feel nothing broken. He'll check in on her tomorrow, assuming they've still got her in custody after Lusk has come through. She watches him, silent and untrusting, pulling as far away from him as she can when he releases her and gets to his feet.

"Get some sleep, kid," he tells her, walking out of the cell. One of the officers comes out from behind his desk to lock it, and Jackson gives him a nod on his way out of the block.

He's keen to get back to Reid, but first he heads to Artherton. Jackson leans an arm on the tall desk, keeps his voice low. "Reid's gonna call it a night," he says casually. It seems as if the amount of people in here has doubled, maybe a shift change. The clock over Artherton's head reads later than he'd thought. "I'll get him home – find us a hansom, wouldya? And see if you can do anything about… this." He waves his hand toward all the new milling bodies.

He sees understanding in Artherton's eyes, and he's grateful for it. He leaves him to the tasks; Jackson hears the man's gruff voice behind him as he heads off down the corridor. "Alright you lot, you don't live here. Time to get home – you've got to face your wives sometime. And the rest of you: you're on duty, not socializing…"

He relaxes a little when he finds Reid still where he left him, though there's not much comfort to be had in the sight. Reid holds the ice to his eye, but he's doubled over so as to be able to balance his left elbow on his knee and make the connection without having to lift his arm. The blanket hangs precariously from his shoulders, slipping with every shuddering inhalation, and he looks more unidentifiable lump than man.

Surprisingly Reid puts up no further debate about going home, other than an intractable insistence that his exit be made in his sodden suit jacket instead of the blanket. It's as much of a hassle to get him back into it as it was out, the wet fabric weighted and catching on itself, but Jackson stows any argument in favor of putting an end to this exhibition. He gathers up the blanket, his hat and Reid's dripping overcoat, and is struggling into his own jacket before the inspector makes it to the door.

Artherton has done his job, and there are few to be seen. Not that Reid seems to notice; he shuffles along on his own, but it's plainly taking all of his concentration to do so. Jackson walks a buffer on the inspector's left side, and there's a smear of water across his leather sleeve from where Reid bumps continuously into him.

Reid stops near Artherton's desk, a slow motion half stumble. Jackson waits while he addresses his desk sergeant. "Artherton. I shall… return in the morning." It's spoken to the flat desk top rather than to the sergeant, and Jackson and Artherton share an unseen look over the crown of Reid's head.

"Yes, sir," is all Artherton says.

There's a hansom outside as he'd requested, mist steaming from the horse's nostrils as it snorts and stomps in the cold. Jackson clambers in first, pulls Reid up. The other man slumps onto the narrow seat with a groan; the captain spreads the blanket over his legs, disregarding a noise that might be meant as protest. That last trek through the station has clearly eaten through any energy Reid had in reserve, and Jackson can't say whether or not he dozes as they ride through the puddled streets.

He rouses as they roll to a halt in front of his house, blinking confused. "Home," Jackson tells him. "Get inside and go to bed."

Reid's movements are hampered by pain and his damaged equilibrium, but he eventually disembarks on his own. Jackson hands his coat down, noting that only one lamp lights the windows behind him. "Thank you, Jackson," he manages. "I am in your debt."

"Forget it, Reid. I told you you wouldn't know what to do without me."

Jackson watches until the door closes behind him. Lighting a cigarette, he directs the driver toward Tenter Street.

**end.**


End file.
